


blood and thunder

by Vault_of_Glass



Series: Kinktober 2018 [6]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Biting, F/M, Vampire AU, blood cw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 07:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16214750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vault_of_Glass/pseuds/Vault_of_Glass
Summary: Day 6: Biting, BloodMacCready takes a job to clear out the old lighthouse.River wakes at sundown to find a human in her house.





	blood and thunder

500 caps. A long and miserable trek through the rain, hauling his rifle all the way up to Salem for 500 caps.

It sounded like good pay at the time. Even if the frail old man who handed them over looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Like he’d seen some kind of ghost.

“Something’s living up in that old lighthouse,” he told him with a tremor in the creak of his voice. “Snatchin’ brahmin at night. People off the road. Not just us - raiders, too. Caravan guards. Every now and then, somebody gets too close - they vanish.”

MacCready nodded absently along with him, silently trying to guess whatever it might be that had this old man so unnecessarily spooked.  _Deathclaw probably. No… albino yao guai. Do they hunt at night?_

And then the stranger shoved a heavy bag of caps into his hands and waited for MacCready to look up into the dark, exhausted hollows of his eyes. “Please hurry.”

 _I'll move as fast as I can, but hiking across the fuckin’ Commonwealth is gonna take some time, old man._  MacCready tips his hood back and glances up at the storm clouds churning overhead. Without the sun, he can track his journey only by half-familiar landmarks, the ache in his feet and the pitch-dark coastline that stretches on and on to his right, white spray crashing violently against the shore. 

It’s gonna cost him a good chunk of those caps just to replace his clothes after this.

He thought the old man was out of his gourd, the way he talked about the lighthouse, but now that he’s finally made it here, and he’s staring up at it -

The tall, dark structure towers over a dilapidated building and the coastline and _him_ , standing small and insignificant at its base. He cranes his neck to squint up at the glass cage above, where a light may once have guided ships to shore a couple hundred years ago. Now it sits empty and dark, like a ribcage with no heart, and the mental image sends a shiver down his spine.

 _Deathclaw_ , he repeats to himself, fingers curling tighter around his rifle.  _No, that’s right. Albino yao guai._

He squelches his way through the mud to the front door. One careful jiggle of its handle confirms it to be locked, which twists at the sudden discomfort in his gut.  _Yao guai don’t lock doors…_

_What the fuck am I getting myself into._

His hands are slick with rain and slip around the bobby pin as he tries to break his way in. He’s out of practice, but the lock gives sooner than it should.  _Finally, at least some stroke of fuckin’ luck._  He angles the door slowly open, wincing at the muted squeal of old hinges, and slips carefully over the threshold. When he closes it behind him, darkness grips his vision.

Lightning scatters the shadows in eerie, unsettling flashes. Thunder rumbles like an ancient beast below the ground as he stands in the darkness, waiting, straining to hear any sound of movement past the rain. His eyes finally start to adjust, and he creeps further into the room, mindful of the rain and mud that still cling noisily to his boots.

The furniture is well-maintained: restitched rips in the couch cushions and carpet, coffee table clear of clutter. A vase of hubflowers adorns the small round dining room table. He rolls his thumb over a petal and it comes loose in his hand, still soft. His footsteps echo wetly in the kitchen, where the counters are gritty and browned from centuries of ruin. A chipped coffee mug rests upside-down beside the sink, as if recently washed.

Someone lives here. Long enough to have made themselves comfortable.

Again that chill of fear prickles along the back of his neck - a sense of wrongness, something out of place that he can’t name.

His knuckles are white around his rifle when he turns for the stairs. He stops at the landing and peers up into the looming darkness, so thick and heavy his stomach knots with the sudden, inexplicable fear that he’ll never reemerge.

MacCready slowly counts to twenty in his head.

And then he takes the first step.

* * *

There’s a human in her house.

He’s quieter than most, but under all the rain and crashing waves, she hears him. Wet boots scuffing floorboards in slow, careful steps. He controls his breathing, pauses at every small creak from the house around him, the wind moaning past the windows, rain beating on the roof. River knows the sound of a hunter at work, and wonders if her hunter this evening knows exactly what he’s gotten himself into.

Most don’t.

She fades languidly from shadow to shadow, following the quiet shuffle of muddy boots. She’s close enough to catch his scent now, sweat and leather, gunsmoke, rain, tobacco. Warm, pulsing blood, enticing her with every deafening beat of his heart. Thirst rises and burns in the back of her throat, the instinct to strike and drink and bathe in the spray of his blood like a fucking animal, and for a few of those tantalizing heartbeats - she considers it. He’s walked himself into her home like delivery take-out, and no one will know he’s gone missing -

She curls her nails into her palms until they bleed. She’s more than instinct, more than thirst. She’s certainly curious about the human trespassing in her home, and that’s reason enough to abstain.

_At least, until I decide what to do with him. And if he’s gotten mud all over my living room carpet, that decision will be easily made._

He’s made it up the stairs by the time she finds him. She perches on one of the rafters, watching him with predator perception. Lightning flashes from the window, casting bright across his face, catching in his lashes and the color of his eyes - blue and sweet and deep, like the sea on calmer days. He’s younger than she expected; humans age fast in the wasteland, but she can still see youth in the lines of his face as he scans the darkness around him, gripping tight at his rifle, one cautious step after another.

He smells even better in such close proximity. She can almost taste his blood on every inhale. She’s met more humans in her very long life than she could ever count. She’s heard their different heartbeats, fed and feasted until she was drunk on their blood and yet somehow none have tempted her like the lanky stranger in her house.

River wants to drink him dry, but more than that - more than instinct, more than thirst - she wants to hear him speak. She wants to know his name and see the way a smile forms on his face. Ancient, human urges reawakened, and she’d almost forgotten how they felt.

In one sinuous motion, she drops to the floor and straightens the hem of her nightgown. She’s hardly dressed for company, but he’s the one trespassing in her house just after sundown. He’s lucky he made it this far.

She wonders if he’ll run.

“It’s impolite to just let yourself into a lady’s home, you know.”

The man yelps and spins on his heel to aim his rifle between her eyes, quickfire and precise. Despite the hard sprint of his heartbeat and the acrid scent of fear that bitters the air, his aim holds steady. He scans her swiftly through the darkness, her hair, her clothes, her empty hands, then lifts his gaze back to meet hers over his rifle.

He doesn’t run. He doesn’t move at all. He stills like a statue and stares her down as his heart crashes frantically in his chest.

Then, without lowering his rifle, he clears his throat and finally says, “Sorry.”

River smiles thinly. “That’s a start.”

“I’m probably just digging myself into a deeper hole here,” he continues, and there’s a thread of humor to his voice despite the fear still rolling off of him with every heartbeat. “But, uh… you haven’t been stealing brahmin, or kidnapping people, or anything like that, have you?”

“You’re right about digging yourself deeper,” she chastises him in a scandalized tone. “And ruder still to ask me from behind a weapon. In my own home.”

A bashful blush spreads pink across his cheeks, and River thinks of old-world wine, sipping sweet rosé from crystal flutes. He lowers the rifle slowly to his side but tension lingers in the line of his shoulders. “Okay, yeah, that’s... fair, I guess.”

River slinks a few steps closer with deliberate slowness, predator approaching prey. Something in him seems to sense it, every muscle rigid with the urge to flee. “Does my unexpected house guest have a name?”

His jaw works as he struggles to make her face out through the darkness. “MacCready.”

“MacCready,” she repeats softly, and in a fraction of a second, she’s standing just before him with his jaw caught firmly in her grasp. He reels and tries to break away but she holds fast, refusing him any chance of escape. His skin is deliciously warm to the touch, and the near, rapid beating of his heart drowns out the storm and every distant growl of thunder. “I don’t normally suffer intruders, MacCready. I value my privacy. But you’ve caught me on a strange night.”

A fork of lightning breaks the darkness, and his eyes grow wide at the glint of fangs between her lips. “You're -"

“Don’t make me change my mind, MacCready.” River releases him with a gentle pat to his cheek before stepping away. “I’m going to light a lantern, okay? Please don’t shoot me, or try to run or anything silly like that. I’ll be quite cross.”

MacCready lifts a hand to the side of his face as she lights a match and sets it to the wick, coaxing a flame to life within the glass. When the light finally spills over them, he eyes her with renewed caution - a fly who’s realized far too late how deeply he’s been caught. “I didn’t hear your footsteps earlier,” he notes in the hushed shadow of a whisper.

“No,” she agrees just as softly.

“Hunts people at night, lives in a creepy old lighthouse,” he lists off, and continues despite her huff of indignation. “Cold as hell.  _Strong_ as hell...  _Fangs_.”

River waits patiently for him to finish, unblinking.

Scraping a hand through the rain-soaked mess of his hair, MacCready breathes a humorless laugh. “I mean, I seriously thought deathclaws or yao guai or cultists, but a real-life fucking  _vampire_ -” He cuts himself off with a swift shake of his head, as if speaking the word aloud might make reality of a very bad dream.

She knows the feeling.

Then he meets her gaze and laments, with a heavy sigh of annoyance, “I’ve been seriously underpaid for this.”

There’s a beat of only rainfall lashing at the windows before River breaks the silence with a burst of laughter, and for the first time a genuine smile lights his face. The sight leaves her feeling inexplicably fond, one strange more-than-thirst temporarily sated. “I might just let you live, MacCready. Now come downstairs and have some tea. You must be freezing in those clothes.”

* * *

MacCready stares into the mug of tea between his hands. Steam curls in tempting ringlets from the surface, hot porcelain warming his hands, yet he can’t shake the chill from the back of his mind.

River the real-life fucking vampire sits motionless across from him, her knees tucked gracefully against her chest. Even in the dim flicker of lamplight, she maintains that otherworldly presence - her face composed of perfect features, skin that glows like moonlight and the brilliant gold of her irises. It gets more and more difficult to tear his eyes away every time he looks back at her.

“Might as well get it over with,” she suggests serenely, musical, like ringing bells. 

“Are you the one who’s been killing those people?”

Her eyebrows lift at his choice of question, but her answer is immediate: “I don’t need to kill to feed,” she replies with distaste in the crystal tones of her voice. “Most of them make it home alive. A little dizzy, a little confused, a little light on blood, but alive and breathing. Others don’t,” she says matter-of-factly, lifting her slender shoulders in a shrug. “Those who won’t be missed. Who see a wasteland and create more chaos.”

MacCready slowly nods as he searches her face for insight. God only knows why he tries to read the actual vampire. “The old guy who hired me - he seemed… terrified. Like he’s seen people disappear.”

Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “Yes, I know the man you refer to. He may have wandered too close for comfort once or twice. I had to scare him off.” She traces a slim fingertip around the rim of her mug. “He’s braver than I thought to still pursue me.”

“I wouldn’t call him brave. He was shaking out of his skin when he hired me.”

“I didn’t want him coming back, and I especially didn’t want him sending anyone after me.” She pauses, reaching out with all the slowness of a human to clear a damp lock of hair from his forehead. “Even if it ended up being you,” she adds in a soft voice.

MacCready still has questions, at least a thousand different questions all clawing up his throat to find voice, but they die behind his tongue at the cold brush of her touch. Her shoulders are bare beneath the thin straps of her nightgown, and he certainly doesn’t devote what little brain power he has left thinking about slipping them down around her shoulders.

River smiles warmly at him, as if lifting the thoughts from his very brain, and for a panicked moment, he fears she’s heard every dirty thought he’s had about her since their strange meeting.

“I can’t read thoughts, MacCready,” she assures him, with a gentle laugh that sounds like honey given voice. “Only when they’re written so clearly on your face.”

His cheeks burn - whether from embarrassment or the tempting curl of her laughter, he can’t say. He swallows hard and casts his eyes down at the mug between his hands. In one fluid movement, she leans across the table to rest her fingers over his.

“I appreciate the attention, though,” she teases when he finally meets her gaze again. Her eyes sparkle with amusement, and something like affection. The pointed tips of her fangs show in her every smile, and he can’t help but to imagine them against the skin of his throat. “I don’t really get too much of that, these days.”

 _Entire nations should be kneeling at your feet_. The feeling hits him hard and fast like a suckerpunch. Someone paid him to hunt this woman, and here he is falling apart to the sight of her smile. He broke into her home with every intention of killing her, nearly shot her when she gripped him with that superhuman strength, and  _yet_ -

“Do you… mind if I stay? Just until the storm passes,” he adds in a rush, remembering the scorn on her face when she scolded him earlier. “It seems like you’re not gonna kill me, and I’m pretty sure I couldn’t kill you - and I know I broke in earlier, but -”

“MacCready.” She silences him with an inviting smile. “What kind of host would I be if I threw you out into that storm?”

He lets out a breath he forgot he’d been holding and actually grins. “Vampire with manners, huh?”

“Who else would still remember them?” She rises to her feet with all the grace of pre-war ballet dancers and reaches over to pluck disapprovingly at his wet shirt. “There’s dry clothes in the dresser upstairs. They might be a little big for you, but at least they won’t get you sick. I’ll hang yours by the fire tonight and they’ll be dry by morning. Go on,” she prompts when he just stares at her in disbelief, nudging gently at his shoulders and urging him toward the stairs.

 _Did I just get babied by a vampire?_  MacCready trudges up the staircase, grumbling to himself and knowing she hears every word.

In the privacy of River’s bedroom, he peels the wet shirt from his skin and yanks it up over his head with a sigh of relief. He scrubs a hand through his drying hair and tugs curiously at the first drawer of her dresser.

He’s never seen so much pink in his life. Pre-war, lacy little numbers, thin and silky like the slip she’s wearing now. His hands curl into fists, fingers twitching against his palms. He thinks of River wrapped in silk and lace. He thinks of tearing her back out of it again.

He quickly shoves the drawer shut, but the mental image remains as he searches through the rest of her dresser. Eventually he finds a stack of flannel shirts in the third drawer down, indeed too broad for his build but blissfully dry. He wonders why she keeps them, then decides maybe he doesn’t want to know. For now, he’s warm and dry and out of the storm.

_And stuck in a house with a vampire who could kill me at any second._

It’s been a weird sort of day.

With his wet clothes bundled in his arms, MacCready descends the stairs and finds River silhouetted against the flames now roaring in the fireplace. He can just make out the shape of her hips through her nightgown, and he bites down hard into his lip to stifle the groan that almost rises.

“If you draw blood, MacCready, we might have a problem on our hands.” She turns and flashes him a playful smile as he releases his lip from between his teeth. Her eyes drop curiously down the height of his body, and she hums a noise deep in her throat that sounds vaguely like approval. He might’ve forgotten the rain-soaked clothes in his hands if she didn’t reach over to take them from him, snapping them out and laying them before the crackling fire.

“Do you need to… drink?” he asks her, phrasing his words cautiously. “Blood, I mean. Do you have to feed often?”

River doesn’t seem offended. She curls those long, beautiful legs up on the couch and pats the seat beside her. “Because I take so little, I have to feed more often than most. Vampires who drain their victims can go a week or two without needing to drink again.”

“And you?”

She rolls her shoulder in a shrug. “Every few days.”

MacCready watches firelight play red and orange through the white silk of her hair. “How long has it been?”

She grazes her tongue along one of her fangs. “A while. I had plans to feed today, before a human broke into my home.” A delicate laugh, though rougher around the edges than he’s heard from her before, and a thrill of fear sinks down his spine at how easily he could have died tonight. Her fingers trace the line of his jaw, tipping his head up by the chin until their eyes meet. “I can see the questions in your face, MacCready. Tell me what you want to know.”

“Does it hurt?” he asks in a parched voice, before he can stop himself.

River stares at him with that inhuman stillness. The air between them feels abruptly tense and heavy, like something wild’s come to life in her that she just barely keeps at bay. “Only at first,” she finally responds.

“And after that?”

Her smile returns, sharp and wicked. “It gets better.”

“...better,” he repeats, stunned near to dumbness by the sudden shift in atmosphere.

River nods, holding his gaze as her fingertips dance feather-light over his knuckles. “Much, much better.” When he doesn’t pull away, her thumb rolls soft across the frenzied pulse in his wrist. “Ask me, MacCready,” she breathes, pupils blown wide like a hunter closing in on her mark, and that most definitely shouldn’t turn him on so much. “I won’t compel you. I won’t do a thing to you unless you ask.” She pulls her hand away, clasps them both politely in her lap and tips her head toward the front door. “You can leave at any point, and I promise I won’t follow.”

The words won’t fit together in his brain. Any sense of self-preservation turned to ash the moment he first made her laugh and filled his head and heart with the sight of her smile.

“I… want you to,” he chokes out.

“You would let me feed from you?”

He nods his head, trying to wet the dryness from his mouth. “Please.”

River graces him with a radiant smile that warms the lingering chill from his bones. She rises into his lap before he can blink, draping slender arms around his shoulders. The sweet smell of vanilla fills his lungs, as if there’s sugar in her skin. “I’ll be gentle with you,” she promises him tenderly, her breath sweeping cool along his neck when she speaks. Her nose skims the line of his throat, and she groans against his skin. “You smell so unbelievably divine.”

Her skin is cold but velvet-soft beneath his hands when he lifts them to her hips. She tilts his head gingerly to the side, brushing his hair back with cool, gentle fingers to bare the full length of his neck. Her thumb trails down over the pulse in his throat and lingers there, tracking his heartbeat.

Her lips graze him first in a chaste, surprisingly tender kiss - the way a lover might touch him, and the comparison makes his stomach twist with sudden anticipation. He feels her lips part, then the cold, sharp press of her fangs and the sting as they sink in, and he can’t help a gasp of pain before weightless pleasure bleeds through him, spider-webbing out from the point of her bite, washing over like a wave and scouring everything in its path: aches and wounds and awful memories all melting and fading away into the blissful pulse of her mouth at his throat. His cock jerks to life and strains against his pants, throbbing for contact.

“Oh, fuuuuu…” He barely has the sense to let the word trail off unfinished. His voice dies in his throat, squeezed down into a desperate, strangled whine as he grips the silk at the small of her back in his fist like a lifeline. “That’s -  _ohfuckohmygod_ -”

River hums against his throat, still drinking, curling catlike limbs around him with responding urgency. Her skin flushes beneath his palm, warmer with his blood. The weight of her rests perfect pressure on his aching cock, and while she drinks from him all he can think about is shoving her slip aside and fucking up into her. His pulse rings in his ears with every draw from her sweet mouth, and everything feels warm and soft and hazy until she finally releases him with a shallow little gasp. She licks her tongue over the puncture marks she’s left behind, planting one last loving kiss there.

A shudder trembles down the length of his spine. Those eerie golden eyes watch him from under heavy lids as he struggles to recover. He still has her slip clutched tight in his hand, and he forces his fingers open with a regretful wince.

“Sorry,” he groans. His voice cracks around even that short word.

“Oh no, darling,” she assures him, honey-saccharine. A healthy pink colors her cheeks, mouth curled into a lazy, sated smile as she licks the crimson from her lips. “You are fucking exquisite. I’ve been dying for a taste of you since you stepped into my house.”

He smiles weakly in response, flattered. “Do you need more?”

“No,” she answers, and he works to keep the disappointment from his expression. Her eyes drop to the mark from her teeth at his throat and she hums with longing. “But I  _want_ more.”

He flashes her a cocky grin and squeezes his hand at the flesh of her hip. “Then take it from me.”

River grips a handful of his hair and leans his head back, and he can feel the edge of brutal strength that she so carefully restrains. The flat of her tongue climbs his throat, lips closing to suck a bruise into his skin, and she moans when his hips flex instinctively against her. The second time her fangs pierce his skin hardly hurts at all. In fact, he grips her closer, tense and whining at the sudden overwhelming rush of sweet sensation. She could drain every last drop of blood from his veins and he would die with a fucking smile on his face.

“MacCready,” she gasps against his skin, licking a rivulet of blood from the wound already closing in his neck.

“It’s RJ,” he pants back, and it takes every ounce of effort to form the words. “My first name.”

“You are far too tempting, RJ MacCready.” Her hips roll down against him, drawing a strangled noise from his chest. She locks a hand around his jaw and holds his stare with her own. “I want to drink from you until you’re begging for me,” she murmurs, raw and throaty with hunger. “Want to taste you on my tongue while you fuck me - drink you while you come inside me -”

MacCready shudders out a broken curse, clutching her close with clumsy hands as she kisses him. The iron taste of his own blood still lingers on her fangs when she nips them at him, licking soothingly over the sting. She latches her mouth at his shoulder and bites down with little preamble, leaving him to fumble desperately at his pants while she drinks.

His fingertips find dampened lace between her thighs, and when he hooks her pretty underwear impatiently aside, River moans into his shoulder and sinks down around him in one swift motion, taking him to the hilt. His head drops back with a strangled whine, eyes screwing shut against the pulsing draw of her fangs in his skin and the wet, slick muscles squeezing tight around his cock.

He stutters out her name, fucking her with sharp, tight thrusts. River lifts her head and cries out with his blood still red across her teeth, clinging to his shoulders as her hips grind down against him. The bite marks where she drank from him all throb with dull heat that pulses beneath his skin. He slips the strap of her gown down her shoulder and dips his mouth to her collarbone, trailing kisses down the hollow between her breasts.

A cold, soft hand grips the back of his neck, holding him against her. His tongue drags a messy circle around the stiff point of one of her nipples, and she whimpers at the touch. “RJ -  _darling_ -!”

MacCready curses through his teeth and clings to every roll and lift of her shapely hips. “Please,” he grits out. “Take - what you need.”

With a whine of relief, River sinks her fangs into the meat of his pectoral muscle, right above his heart, and they shudder against each other as she starts to drink and he sees stars behind his eyelids. She rocks a desperate rhythm, moaning wetly into his skin, and the livewire bliss that bleeds out from her bite yanks him violently toward climax.

“Fuck,  _fuck_ , River, I’m gonna come,” he whines, his voice torn and wounded.

She pins her perfectly-manicured nails into his sides, locking them tight together. He feels the warm trickle of blood sliding slowly down his chest and the faint echoes of pain that lace the overwhelming pleasure. His fist clenches tight around the silk of her slip, and his eyes slide shut into unending darkness as he gasps and falls apart. His cock fills her in pulses of thick heat, on and on until his head spins, and he’s just starting to come back down when River comes around him. She throws her head back with a wail, loud enough to pierce the storm that rages on outside. They shiver together through the aftershocks before she finally stills against him and heaves a satisfied sigh. 

MacCready’s heart pounds overtime, like he’s been running for his life. He lifts a hand to his chest and it comes away red with his blood.

“Sorry about that,” River apologizes neatly, seemingly composed once more, though he can see the difference in the pink that colors her cheeks and the almost warmth of her body against his own. “I’m usually quite tidy when I eat, but…” Then an airy laugh. “I usually don’t fuck my dinner either. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No,” he promises at once, still somewhat tongue-tied. “Not hurt. That definitely did not hurt.”

“Oh, good.” She smiles and sucks a small drop of his blood from her thumb. “I’m feeling better, too.”

He tries to help her to her feet, but his muscles feel abruptly far too heavy. She nudges him gently back against the couch. “Stay. You need something to eat, and then you need some rest.”

He has just enough time to wonder what kind of food a vampire keeps in her fridge before his eyelids droop lower and lower, and he crashes on the couch.

* * *

The rain is gone when MacCready finally wakes. He sits up among unfamiliar sheets that smell faintly of vanilla and squints against the sunlight streaming in through cloudy windows. When the flood of memories from yesterday’s nightmare-turned-wet-dream comes rushing back, he claps a hand over his neck and feels the grooves of two small puncture wounds still healing in the skin there.

His clothes are folded at the foot of the bed beneath a small, hand-written note in perfect penmanship.

_RJ -_

_I left you breakfast in the kitchen. You fell asleep before you could eat last night, so please try to eat what you can._

_I’ll be beneath the creepy old lighthouse when you wake, but help yourself to anything else you might need on your travels._

_Thank you for the lovely time last night. The memories will keep me warm for an eternity._

_And if you find yourself in my part of the Commonwealth again - don’t be a stranger._

_xoxo River_

MacCready peers out at the lighthouse on the coast. He pictures River sleeping somewhere in the darkness underground, in that slip that felt so soft between his fingers, well-fucked and sated on the taste of his blood.

Every few days. She needs to feed  _every few days._

He sprawls out on the sheets that smell like her and starts the long, long wait for sundown, wondering exactly what he’ll tell that terrified old man next time he sees him.

**Author's Note:**

> [Del](http://delborovic.tumblr.com/) is an angel who has blessed me with [fanart](https://vaultie-glass.tumblr.com/post/179436263344/delborovic-more-spooky-stuff-heres-some-fanart).


End file.
